Monica’s Story circa 2000 A.D.

He was getting tired of it. I could tell by his being so testy. I was his wife, but also his partner: our job: collecting information and informants for the Soviet Union, later Russia.

 I used the old excuse, “It’s just a job and somebody has to do it.”

Victor pulled a verbal fast-one on me, saying, “When we were in Elementary school, the Viet Nam War was blowing soldiers up so fast body counts were outrageous. One night the headmaster showed us film from American television.”

We listened to the news but also we were learning the intricate nature of American English. The inflections and nuances of their language. Imagine the distinction between Arte Johnson from LAUGH IN saying ‘veryEENteresting’ and just plain ‘interesting’.

I nodded and softly said, “I remember. We were already being groomed for espionage work.”

Victor made his point, “A very bitter anti-war protester screamed at the camera and her nation, ‘Fighting for peace is like fucking for chastity’."

"Will you be ‘fucking for chastity’ tonight?”

“That’s my job and you are my support. You won’t have to hold this guy’s dick, (Pause), Yet.”

The implication was clear: Victor would assist me in my job at all costs, any cost, feigning liking gay sex as well. Whatever we needed to do, we would do for the Fatherland.

Victor and I had cycled in and out of each other’s lives until we graduated. We didn’t love each other, at first. Arranged marriages were more accepted in our country and I did grow to ‘love’ him over time.

My handler, Boris, told me early on, “Despite being a pair, a team, even in love, even in marriage, somebody has to be in charge. That ‘somebody’ is you.”

Women are more focused than men.

Tonight, I was going to find my new ‘mark’ and seduce him. Victor knows this, but he is bothering me while I am dressing. ‘Dressing’ is too simple a word, as I am about to assume a new identity with a fresh persona and Victor is badgering me.

Boris always respects my judgment. When we got our first assignment, I reverted to my more Georgian than Russian pleading, “I am younger. Victor has been an agent for two years, knows the military bases and routines around Norfolk. He has friends aboard the carrier Forrestal.”

Boris then told me a story he credited to George Washington. “One time, a fellow farmer observed that the wife seemed sharper in business than her husband. George replied, 'Sometimes the mare of the team is the better horse'.”

The mare would be on the prowl tonight.

My partner is a good man and we work well together. He is an artist by trade and we travel across the U.S. every summer, following the arts and craft circuit. Ostensibly, we are marketing his sculpture and drawings, but we also have been spies for the Soviet Union and Russia for twenty years. We are almost ready to retire, but must continue until called home. I don’t have to fake my aristocratic nature. I am from the Russian (actually Georgian) upper class. People just assume that I support my husband’s career because I can. And he is a competent artist.

Victor is adequate for our assignment, but does not think well ‘on his feet’, as Americans might say. This is another time when I will have to take charge, of him and the operation.

I took my husband of over twenty years by both hands, put my forehead on his as if to mind-meld our mission. “Remember Archie from the aircraft carrier?”

“Da. I meant, Yes.”

“See. You are slipping, husband. That mistake could have put us both in American jails. You would give up all our contacts, all our secrets. They would hurt you before they killed you. And me as well.  Even if you escaped, Boris would not take you back.”

I focused on how dangerous this operation is: “Now listen: The name of Archie’s ship, when I got the plans for the next class of carriers? Nu-cle-ar ones?” I enunciated every syllable.

In Russian, he sighed, “Well, so what?”

I thought, Russian again! I may have to have Boris snatch my husband out of here!

Calling him home is still possible, but Boris would kill him, probably within a few miles of our place in Portsmouth, Virginia.

“I will soldier on,” I continued, in a whisper. “What happened to the carrier’s namesake?”

Victor understood, “He was fired and ‘fell’ out of a sixteenth-floor window at Bethesda Naval Hospital. Our people know strong drugs were involved, probably LSD.”

Case closed. I ordered Victor to go to his workshop and wait for my call. Got ready to meet someone.

The area around military bases does not vary too much. Sailors know which bars cater to what kind of ship or rating or rank. My target was a communications officer just transferred off his ship. I already knew his backstory: mid-rank, what should be mid-career, recently deserted by his wife, close to my age. I had dyed my hair his wife Alice’s blonde shade and applied her brand of perfume. Too bad Victor did not appreciate my research work!

I sat down at the bar two seats away and ordered a vodka screwdriver. 

He startled me by sliding across to be closer and saying in perfect Russian, “Vodka, eh? Are you a spy?”

“You speak Russian! Bravo. My name is Angie. I am fascinated by all foreign languages. If I hadn’t majored in business, I would have been a linguist.”

“I’m Mark.” Over the next hour and two more vodkas for Mark, he gave me his life story. I nodded, oohed, ahhed, tut-tutted. The irony of my ‘mark’ being named Mark was not lost on me. My mission was to befriend him and over the next month, sap him of every scrap of military intelligence he had. 

My story was of a Midwestern farm girl thrown into the whirlwind of navy housing, a clique society I was not welcomed into.

Mark told me, “I got jilted after twenty years of marriage. Wait. Exactly twenty years next week. But it ain’t gonna happen again.  The bitch left me for an admiral! Can you believe that shit?”

Mark looked disappointed. I tried to cheer him up. I talked to my glass of vodka: “My Twentieth anniversary was going to be next week.

He took the bait, saying, “My anniversary is, no was, the Fifth!”

“Mine too!” I asked, “Are you driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Take me somewhere. Now.” I excused myself to the powder room.

I called Victor with the name of the bar we were in. He would hire a taxi. Mark and I would be long gone before Victor fetched my car.

My new friend was cheap! Liquor stores were closed already, but he stopped at a store and purchased some liquid courage. We passed several upscale hotels and motels and ended up near the interstate. I waited in his car.

Mark unlocked the room door and we went inside. One bit of advice for would-be lady spies: Don’t be afraid to talk. Yammer about anything. Eventually, it will be his turn.

I dared not call Victor again, as the motel might charge extra for the call and I wanted no trace of ever being in that room. I lay down on the bed, in the middle, and patted the mattress. He sat, not knowing what to do next. I helped.

“Take off my shoes, my feet hurt.” Mark got the message and massaged my calves, which did need attention. He did well, sort of pulling my legs, one at a time, and worked his way up. When he got to my knees I opened my legs: a silent sign of encouragement.

“I love that aroma. What perfume are you wearing?”

I lied. “I really don’t know the name. I don’t think it is expensive.”

Mark moved up on the bed and began to toy with my blouse. He unbuttoned two or three and I said, “So. You’re a tit man, huh?”

“I guess I am.”

“Let’s get more comfortable,” I suggested. “Fair is fair, so I get to undress you now. Sit up.”

Taking control in these situations is so important. I was establishing my dominance, but in a subtle way. I ripped his shirt off, exposing a formidable, manly chest. I stroked it then laying back.

Mark leaned in to kiss me. I let him. He started slow then dared to give me some tongue.

“I like that,” I said and kissed him back with lots of tongue. I kissed down his chest, stopping at his nipples. I don’t think anybody had ever nibbled on one of his. He grabbed the back of my head and pressed my face into his body.

He returned the favor and I undid my bra myself, loosening my tits. “They are very sensitive, so go easy on me, at first." He lifted one up, licked it and squeezed the nipple. It felt good: I cannot lie!

I felt him stiffen and he began to hump my hip. I adjusted to allow him to move back and forth.

“Do you have a big dick? I’ll bet you do, don’t you?”

This kind of bedroom talk/pillow talk must have been new to him. I could tell he was not accustomed to an aggressive female or even a verbal one. I pushed it.

“I want you to stand up and take all your clothes off. I am going to strip for you now, but you can’t touch anything unless I give permission. Understand?”

Clothes flew everywhere. “Come here, Mark. Stretch your monster out so I can see it in all its glory.”

He was impressive.  He had wisely washed up a bit in the bathroom because his aroma was not musky, but rather surgically clean. I fixed that. With my new lover leaning over the side of the bed, with one hand I traced the shape of the head (large and already red) and circled the shaft. With my other hand, I made sure he saw me dip my fingers into my vagina, move them around then brought them up to his now twitching dick.

“How long has it been since a girl rubbed her pussy juice on your dick, Mark?”

“Ungh.” I heard him grunt and his voice wanted to say something, but his vocal expression was a guttural groan.

“Get some more of my pussy juice and rub it on your dick. Get a lot of it because I want you to jerk off, using my honey as lubricant.”

Mark stood (I don’t know how!) jerking off. Sometimes, I would lick his fingers for more fluid. 

“Spit on your hand.” He did. He was getting close. So was I. Imagine watching a stranger jerk off naked just out of tongue reach.

“Okay, lover. How are you at eating pussy? What grade did the last girl give you?” I know that was cruel, but I wanted to establish hegemony over this long piece of man-meat. I went on, “Whatever grade you got before, if you want to eat this cunt, you’re going to go for straight A’s.”

I spread my legs wide and led him by the hand so he was kneeling in front of me. I reached down and rubbed my clit. “What color is my clit, Mark?”

“Pink,” he whispered.

“Make it red.”

He started and knew what he was doing. He licked my outer folds gently and sniffed the perfume again. I know it must have taken him back. He lifted my legs over my head, by my knees. He got more aggressive, pulling on my cunt lips, nuzzling and kissing me.

“You like?” I got a nod. “You like licking a girl’s privates?” Nod.

I kidded him just far enough: "What if I’d already fucked somebody tonight? Would you still eat me?”

Nod.

“Then give me some cum from those humongous balls of yours, hunk. Maybe you can lick me out again.”

My new lover slid himself up braced himself with his fists right beside my ears. His dick was long enough and hard enough to not need any more encouragement. He slipped right in.

I had to slow him down twice or he would have blown up before I even got good and started. I regulated his thrusts, groaning and presenting myself to him completely. When I was ready, I moved his hips up a bit and with only half a dick in me, started moving. Jerking a guy off with your cunt is a skill that I had mastered early on.

He didn’t last long. Finally, it was over and we could relax. “TV?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure. The Eleven o'clock news should be just coming on.”

Mark got up to wash himself off. I put on his long-sleeve shirt and sat up in bed. He offered some of the wine he’d bought, but I declined. My lover finished the fifth before we turned off the lights.

I went deeper into his psyche. “I really liked the way you licked my pussy. Any woman would appreciate your lovemaking skills.”

Grunt of approval.

“Would you eat my pussy again, even though it might taste a little like yourself?”

“Gladly.”

Alcohol had deteriorated Mark’s cunnilinguist skills, but he soldiered on. (The booze loosened his tongue later on.)

I was getting horny all over again. I turned up the heat, asking “Can you taste your cum?”

A nod and a sigh.

Between ‘lights out’ and when I called a cab at nine the next morning, we talked. We talked, more in the darkness than we had in the light. Seems as though the first time he’d tasted cum on a cunt was on Alice’s pussy. She’d gone out with the girls for an evening and returned drunk.

“I’d been watching porn all evening and was really horny," he said. "She wouldn’t fuck or go down on me, but said she’d compromise."

Mark’s compromise was that he got to eat her out. That’s when he knew she’d been two-timing him!

I replied with no sense of remorse or irony, “What a slut!”

He was fed up with the navy, with his wife’s infidelities, his stalled career and life in general. I gently inquired about what skills he had and experiences/equipment, duty stations, C.O.’s he’d known and liked or disliked.

“All this ASROC, BUPERS, submarine counter-measures stuff is way over my paygrade,” I said. “But a guy like you will find it easy to get a job on the outside, probably at twice the pay of what you’re getting now.”

“I dunno,” he said doubtfully.

“Look, here is the number of a guy who specializes in placing navy veterans in good jobs. You can mention my name, but not how we met. Okay?”

The ‘guy’ was Victor, of course. My husband would quiz Mark on his career and decide how best we could use him.

“Of course,” Victor said in his first interview with Mark, “We have to be discreet. We can trust Angie. Let her be the go-between. First, I will need your service history and where your specialties lie. Big industry is looking for vets with experience with the newest weapon systems and familiarity with the way private industry fills the navy’s needs. Would you prefer a large company in the beltway area or a more specific skill that only you or a small group of experts work together on. East coast or west coast or a city you’d like to move to?”

Mark was hooked. Not the first nor the last of Victor and Monica’s string. “West coast or overseas. Maybe Naples?”

“Fine. When you have the information we need, call me. I trust Angie to meet with you and set you on your way.”